Thanks for the Thought
by Gondalier
Summary: While welcoming a brief respite from the war, Artur is bewildered by his friend's baffling behavior. More than usual, that is.


Set in the capital of Frelia, where Ephriam and Eirika's motley band takes a quick breather in the midst of their quest, presumably to restock on supplies. Rated K+ for war references and very mild innuendo.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Lute, I though I might find you here."<p>

Artur stepped around a large pile of discarded books scattered haphazardly between two tall bookshelves and spilling into the aisle beyond. _The Historical Index of Carcinian Mercantile vol. II; How the Silent Emperor Lost His Voice; Longitude, Latitude, and the Effects of Altitude on Magical Performance… _he grimaced at the sheer volume and variety of the titles choking the polished marble floor beside his feet, trying to carefully avoid stepping on one of the precious tomes. No doubt they cost more than his hide was worth in the great library of Freila.

"Uhm, Lute?"

Beyond the fortress of tomes sat a waifish mage with purple hair and a petulant frown. Engrossed in a huge yellowed book—Artur could not quite pick out its title—she remained wholly oblivious to all beyond her current acquisition. A common phenomenon for Lute. He could never tell for sure if this was due to complete devotion to her task or if she purposefully blew people off in order to pursue her studies away from the trite minds of society. Artur chose to believe the former. Regardless, he was ever hard-pressed to devise a way of getting her attention. Beyond snatching the book from her hands or praying for a natural disaster of earth-shaking ramifications to strike the vicinity—both of which would have similar consequences. He mused vaguely as he stood awkwardly in front of Lute, waiting for her to acknowledge his presence.

…Which was actually not all that unpleasant. His gaze brushed absently down the girl's tumbling purple ponytails, across her pixie-like features, onto her bare shoulders… The open shoulders were apparently fashionable. Not that Artur cared much about clothing trends, or really paid any attention at all except that he had seen L'Archael in similar attire and assumed that a princess would know what's what, fashion-wise. Of course, Lute looked great in pretty much anything…

That rapid degeneration of thought brought a quick blush to the monk's fine features—what was wrong with him? This was Lute, after all. He glanced hurriedly sidelong and took a little step in the mage's direction, knocking a tome aside in his haste. "Lute—"

The girl's eyes snapped upward. Before Artur could be glad he had finally gotten her attention, worried that he might still be flushed, or finish his sentence—the first and second occurred only a heartbeat later—Lute greeted him with a lunge at the offending tome. She gave the book a cursory glance before setting it down where it had been before.

She settled into her nook once again, placing her open book in her lap, obviously ready to dive back into its pages at a moment's notice. "Really, Artur, you are clumsy. I had those categorized by topic before you rather rudely kicked that poor first edition of _The Seafarer's Observations of the Gradoian Coast_ across the floor."

Artur wasn't sure if "kicked across the floor" was the proper interpretation for a harmless nudge. He was, however, unwilling to argue the point with Lute. The girl could sound right if she was trying to convince you that the sun was purple. He also wasn't sure if he was the one who needed to worry about handling the Frelian books. He had noticed earlier one of the solemn librarians whispering with a second and glancing peevishly in the direction of Lute's aisle, which had indicated to him her location in the first place. He wondered fleetingly how long she had been sequestered there.

Dissipating any irritation with a grin, Artur settled into a crouch where he stood a few yards away from Lute. The physical boundaries of her studies. "Hah, hello to you, too. I haven't seen you in a while."

Lute's face screwed into that puzzled look she so often adopted when she found someone illogical. "You saw me this morning."

"For about the five minutes you could spare to eat between books. I said 'good morning, Lute' and you said 'huh,' which I hardly feel constitutes a real discussion. Do you ever stop studying?"

"To clarify, you said 'seen.'"

Artur avoided rolling his eyes. Talking with Lute often felt much like talking with a dictionary. "I meant… talked with."

"Oh. We talked on the battlefield during that little skirmish on our way to Frelia yesterday afternoon. Remember? You said 'Watch out!' and I said 'I've got this covered.' Right before I seared that Mogall into its elemental components. Quite spectacularly, if I do say so myself."

Artur remembered that incident. Again, he remembered it slightly differently than Lute apparently did. In hindsight, he almost felt sorry for the fate of that floating eyeball, reanimated rotting blasphemy that it was, when he remembered the way Lute had torn into the creature with her Elfire spell. The mage's hasty incantation had resulted in a ghastly explosion of goo and dark bits of something that he avoided pondering altogether. It had felt like overkill to Artur, though Lute had seemed quite pleased with her spell's display.

"Oh," Lute continued with calculating interest. "And that evening we talked about monster blood stains on clothing. You mentioned something about how impossible it is to properly clean anything thus polluted, though in _10,007 Little Known Remedies to the Traveler's Quandaries,_" she pointed to an open green-bound book to her right sporting a sketch of a thin-petaled flower that reminded Artur of a squashed daisy,_ "_Sir Ecthlar prescribes for such stains a rinse in cold water infused with the powder of dried Xeranthemum petals. Though in your case, considering how you monks wear such light-hued materials, residual staining may remain regardless of proper treatment."

Artur consciously glanced down at his white clerical robes. Upon their company's arrival into Frelia he had been relieved of his spoiled garments and granted fresh ones. Though he had wished to compensate King Hayden for his generosity, Frelia's monarch would not hear of it, much to the small-town monk's surprise and embarrassment. "Hah, yes, I suppose you're right."

"You'd be far better suited to sport a shaman's robes. Or mine. Both are much more practical considering how our current services in Ephraim and Eirika's army consist of making bloody messes."

"Sadly the robes come with the title. And I rather prefer white."

"Hmm." Lute tapped her thin fingers on the open page of her book.

Artur hid a sudden pang of disappointment behind a placid smile as he let his eyes rove the shelves right above Lute's head. Again, she had successfully steered the conversation away from his intended point.

Which was… what? His eyes locked on a big, decrepit tome that was so worn only a hint of blue pigment was to be found in its buckling binding. What did he want, anyway? He was usually quite content to listen to his prodigious friend; her unremitting lists of logical deductions, her scholastic observations, her quotations of obscure tomes most scholars, let alone a young person, would be hard-pressed to have even heard of. Although anymore Artur was far beyond being much flabbergasted by the mage—usually—he still found her at times irksome.

What he found even more bothersome was the fact that he could not quite pinpoint why he was of this opinion. Take now, for example. What had Lute done out of the ordinary that should surprise or annoy him? For as long as Artur had known her, Lute had always been engrossed in studies and of no inclination to spend much time or effort in pursuing an active social life. Not from a lack of capability, simply from a lack of interest: Artur was sure that his talented friend could do just about anything she wished. When he was little he had found Lute's peculiar nature to be intimidating and cold, but as their friendship had grown over the years he had gradually learned to accept that it was just her personality.

And she was not completely uncaring, the monk had also discovered. When Artur was a still a lad, some of the village boys had teased him about his decision to join the clergy. Most were training to become farmers like their fathers; some planned on joining up with the military once they were of age. Regardless, Artur was readily the butt of many jokes with his quiet demeanor, easy-going attitude, and delicate complexion. His plans of a peaceful profession in the clergy did nothing to remedy the situation.

On one occasion, when he was heading home in the evening after spending a day at the chapel in town, some of the boys had accosted him with more of their relentless taunting. Tired and not in the mood to cope with the incessant negativity, Artur had tried to force his way past the lads. Before he could blink, his vision had flickered black, a sharp pain lanced through his body from his stomach, and he was on the ground. The boys were laughing above him.

He had been very young and could not stop a surge of tears. His misfortune would have undoubtedly increased beyond measure if his antagonists had seen this display. But they had had no opportunity to do so. When Artur at last forced himself to look up, one yelping boy's hair was on fire and the others had scattered haphazardly, abandoning their comrade in their haste to avoid a similar fate.

And there stood Lute, in the midst of the fray, book of fire magic in hand and an uncharacteristically livid expression gracing her features.

Monk-teasing diminished abruptly after the incident. In hindsight, Artur toyed with the notion that it may have been mostly Lute who had given him the courage to pursue his professional dream.

Or, Artur remembered with a grin, there was that time with the spiders… though he still remained skeptical as to the degree of Lute's asserted good-will in that incident versus her fascination for the experience.

The monk dropped his gaze from the worn blue tome to find the girl staring at him quizzically. "I guess I kinda spaced out, there."

She arched her eyebrows. "You most certainly did."

Leave it to Lute to make the obvious sound more obvious… A thought occurred to Artur and he grabbed the book she had earlier indicated from the floor. "_10,007 Little Known Remedies to the Traveler's Quandaries_? Interesting choice of literature."

"Thank you. You're going to put that back, right?"

With an exasperated exhale Artur leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Not only was Lute being extra Lute-ish today but he suddenly felt very stupid. "Yes, I'll put your book back! I'll let you get back to your reading, sorry to bother you."

His voice sounded louder than he had anticipated. With a grimace, he quickly placed the tome back in its place and stood to leave.

"Wait!"

Surprised, Artur looked down. Lute tugged at a handful of his robe, her current scholarly acquisition spilling catawampus in her haste to stop him.

"Um, sorry. Please stay, Artur, I like talking with you." In another quick movement, she dropped his robe and folded her hands in her lap.

Artur stared at her dumbly, surprised and unsure of what to say. Apparently Lute took the silence the wrong way, because she carefully pushed a pile of books a few feet from her side—that sacrifice must have killed her—and patted the cleared tiles. "You can sit next to me, too, if you want."

His peevishness vanished rather abruptly. The monk now faced the daunting prospect of not bursting into laughter. There she sat, staring up at him with those big eyes, her books scattered everywhere. She looked for all the world like a small kitten who knew it was being reprimanded but had no idea why.

It was pretty cute, actually.

It took much composure for Artur to accept the proffered seat with only a smile and a muffled giggle.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing." He could not look at her face and so opted for scanning the shelves of colorful tomes across the aisle instead. "You've changed, you know."

"How so?"

"I dunno, it's… it's a good change."

"Thank you, then. And you've become more cryptic."

"Why thank you."

"I have doubts as to your acquaintance with the word 'cryptic.' It means—"

This time Artur did laugh. "I know, I know, I was just teasing you."

Lute did not look like she really believed him, but dropped the topic regardless. "So… you're interested in Ecthlar's work?"

"What, who?"

Lute threw him a disapproving glance, opened her mouth to answer, closed it, then tried again.

She pointed at one of the books. "_10,007 Little Known Remedies to the Traveler's Quandaries_, penned in the year 686 by Sir Ecthlar. You were pawing all over it a few seconds ago."

"I… you really have a peculiar taste in verbiage sometimes, Lute."

"Thank you."

"…Right." He thought of telling her that his interest in her book was unimportant or stupid. Curiosity banished that notion. "I was just wondering if there was any particular reason behind your reading that one. I mean, it was a funny, uh, coincidence that it would be about what we'd just been discussing yesterday."

…Yeah, on second thought, that _was_ just stupid.

"Oh, that." She brought a hand to her mouth in thought, staring down at the book and tracing little patterns across the squashed daisy illustration. "It happened to be covered in the category of material I felt inclined to research today."

"Ah." Artur decided not to mention the marked furrow in her brow.

He was about to change the subject before she continued, "Actually, I was looking for a way to fix your clothes, but when I saw you at breakfast it was apparent the issue had been remedied." She brightened. "But the topic was too interesting to abandon so I decided to find out anyways." Her fingers had migrated from the open book to her hair. "Besides, seeing as how we'll be fighting monsters again soon, the knowledge may come in handy. Though it may be a bit difficult procuring Xeranthema at this time of the year; they are seasonal, you know…"

Before he could read into anything Lute had said, Artur faced her and smiled. "Thanks, Lute."

Lute blinked. "For what?"

"For… the thought, I guess."

"Huh, OK. You're welcome."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, Lute distracted by one of her open books and Artur content to sit in peace. He had had little of that commodity of late.

Their company had been on the road for weeks without respite. Monster encounters were becoming more frequent; they were lucky to pass a day without a run-in with a stray revenant or a pack of mauthe doogs. And those were the lucky days. Ephraim and Eirika's small army often had to contend with whole hordes of assorted hellish creatures or overwhelming numbers of Gradoian soldiers and hired mercenaries.

But that was not the worst part of their enterprise. The worst part was the uncertainty of everyday life. One never knew if an ambush lay in wait in a surrounding forest, if a traveling band of merchants was really Gradoian soldiers in disguise, if a town would yield aid or corpses, if one would even wake up the next morning. It was almost more bearable to be in the heat of battle than to wonder when the next attack would strike.

Those factors provoked short tempers, constant stress, and general exhaustion in most of the company. As Artur was of an easy-going disposition, he tended to hold his temper more and stress less than many of his comrades. But he was ever prone to fatigue. It was bitter irony that fated a young monk, once teased by peers who thought him weak, to become a soldier in service to the only force that stood between the continent of Magvel and her destruction.

And now… now that he was behind thick walls of stone and under the protection of Frelia's finest guards, Artur felt the exhaustion envelop him like a thick blanket. It was one thing to be constantly on the run and tired: his survival depended on how well he could suppress the fatigue. But behind the relative safeties of the Frelian capitol, hampering emotions and conditions were free to crash through the feeble mental fortifications demanded by survival.

He had fallen asleep quickly the night before. That had been very shortly after Ephriam and Eirika's company had entered the keep, but naturally not before Artur had paid proper homage to King Hayden for his kindness. As soon as he had hit his bed—a _real_ bed—he had been out like a light, having no opportunity to really experience fatigue. But now the last few weeks were intent on collecting their due.

Now he felt years older.

"You don't look so good."

Artur blinked away enough of his reverie to force a lopsided smile. "I'm just tired, that's all."

"You didn't sleep well last night?"

"No, it's not that. It's this whole war, you know?" Gosh, that sounded vague. The monk's thoughts did not want to focus anymore.

"Hmmm, this recalls to my mind one of our previous discussions. I take it you still won't consider herbal remedies or humming?" Lute cocked her head at him expectantly.

"Thank you, but I'm afraid you're right."

The mage said nothing. Artur assumed that she had picked up her reading again and was a little surprised when she spoke up: "I suppose, then, there is really only one solution to your quandary. I'll have to employ my genius to ending the war by the quickest means possible."

Lute's certainty made Artur do a double-take. Her expression was dauntless—she always had full confidence in her own abilities.

"I believe you will," he stated guilelessly.

"Why shouldn't you?"

He laughed again despite his fading clarity of thought. "No reason, apparently."

Although the sleepiness seemed there to stay, Artur felt as if a palpable heaviness had been lifted from him.

"You really are the best, you know," the monk continued sleepily, covering a yawn. He shifted his weight. The marble of the great library floor was much more comfortable than it had been earlier. It was very apparent that he could—would—nod off at any moment, but he was loathe to leave the library and retire to his own quarters.

The movement made Lute fidget as well. She pulled her legs close to her chest and leaned into her friend, dragging a tome with her.

A fuzzy warmth suffused the monk's body. He was dimly aware of the smile playing at the edges of his lips as a comfortable blackness enfolded him.

"I know."


End file.
